Chapter 8: The Cost of a Canteen
He didn't step forward as a volunteer. Instead, he walked up to Borin, his movements calm and deliberate.
"I have a lead on water," Ryley said, his voice low.
Borin's eyes, heavy with exhaustion, sharpened. "Where?"
"Down a side passage. I'll go alone. Faster, quieter."
"And if you find it?" Borin asked, understanding the unspoken transaction immediately.
"I'll bring back what I can carry," Ryley said. "But I get a full share for myself, first. No questions asked. And…" he paused, letting the weight of the next demand hang in the air. "I want your promise. A future favor. No specifics now. Just your word."
It was an intangible price, but in this world, a promise from a man like Borin—a man of stubborn, rigid honor—was more valuable than any single item. It was a get-out-of-death-free card to be cashed in at a time of Ryley's choosing.
Borin's jaw tightened. He didn't like it. He was a man who believed in direct action and shared sacrifice. But he was also a leader staring at fifty parched throats. He gave a short, sharp nod. "Done. But if you die out there, the deal is void."
"I don't plan on dying," Ryley said flatly.
He turned and slipped out of the hall before anyone could change their minds, melting into the oppressive gloom of the corridor. He moved with a predator's silence, his senses stretched to their limits. The halls were not empty. He could hear things—distant skittering, a wet, dragging sound, the faint, chilling whisper of the rust as it seemed to shift and breathe in the darkness. Kaelen's warning was a constant drumbeat in his mind.
He followed the sound of dripping water, a faint plinking noise that led him to a crumbling archway and down a narrow, debris-choked stairwell. The air grew colder and damper. At the bottom, behind a rusted iron grate hanging by one hinge, was a small, subterranean chamber. In the center, fed by a slow, constant drip from a crack in the ceiling, was a stone cistern. The water was murky, but it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He filled his own canteen first, drinking deeply until his stomach ached with the cold, blessed relief. Then, he filled the two extra waterskins he had taken from the dead during the initial scramble. He worked quickly, the feeling of being watched a constant itch between his shoulder blades.
As he turned to leave, a glint of metal caught his eye. Half-submerged in the muck near the cistern was a skeleton, picked clean. Around its bony finger was a simple silver ring, etched with a rune he didn't recognize. A relic. A player from a previous cycle who had found this place, but never left.
Without a second thought, Ryley wrenched the ring from the finger bone. It felt cold and heavy in his palm. He shoved it into a hidden pocket. This was not part of the deal with Borin. This was his.
When he returned to the hall, the survivors watched him with the wide, desperate eyes of ghosts. He ignored them, walking straight to Borin and handing over the two full waterskins.
"The source is small. It won't last long," he said, the lie coming easily. He needed to control access, to maintain the value of his knowledge.
Borin took the water, his expression unreadable. "You have your share. And you have my word."
Ryley simply nodded and retreated to a dark corner of the hall, away from the grateful murmurs as Borin began rationing the water in cruel, life-giving sips. He took another long drink from his own canteen, the water a private victory. He had secured his immediate survival, gained a valuable future favor, and looted a hidden treasure.
As he sat in the darkness, the cold, unfamiliar weight of the silver ring in his pocket felt like a secret. In this world of rust and death, secrets were the true currency. And Ryley was determined to be a rich man.
The water was gone by morning. Two skins among fifty people had been little more than a cruel tease, dampening throats but not quenching the deep, pervasive thirst that had taken root. The mood in the hall was darker, more desperate. The brief flicker of hope Ryley had brought back had burned out, leaving behind the bitter ash of reality.
Borin stood, his face etched with a new kind of exhaustion—the kind that came from leading people toward a cliff's edge. "We can't stay," he announced, his voice cutting through the low murmurs. "The water here is gone. We need to move deeper into the city, find a sustainable source, and secure it."
This time, there were no volunteers. Only a sullen, terrified silence. The memory of the fissure-creatures was too fresh.
Ryley watched from his corner. Moving was a risk. Staying was a slower death. Borin was making the right call, but he was losing his flock. Their fear was beginning to outweigh their trust.
It was then that Borin's gaze found Ryley in the shadows. The unspoken promise hung between them, a debt now due.
"Dyke," Borin said, the name sounding like a command. "You found water once. You have the best chance of finding it again. You'll take point with me."
A ripple of uneasy relief went through the group. The burden of leadership was being shared, the risk offloaded onto the quiet, competent stranger.
Ryley felt the weight of the promise settle on his shoulders. This was the favor. Not a life-saving intervention in a moment of battle, but this—being made a scout, a guide, a target. He had traded a future favor for immediate, elevated risk. It was a worse deal than he'd anticipated.
He gave a single, curt nod. "Understood."